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“It’sTeddie, you dick.”
“Right, right.Teddie.So, everything was great until you fucked it up.”
“Yeah, yeah. I fucked up. I said that already.”
Peter laughs, shaking his head. “You always do this, man. Anytime you get something good going, you find a way to piss on it. Like you don’t deserve to be happy or some shit.”
“No, I don’t,” I argue, barely hiding my pout.
“Oh, yes, you do. That’s why you suck at relationships.” He’s full of shit. Idon’tsuck at relationships. They’re just not for me—that’s all. “Remember Brenda?”
“Becky, you loose twat.”
“Oh, right.Becky. You guys dated for what? A year?”
“And? Like most eighteen-year-olds going off to college, we ended it. Long-distance would’ve been stupid at that age and we were headed in different directions.”
“I see.” He lifts a single brow. “So what about Jasmine, then?”
“You’re doing this shit on purpose to goad me, but it won’t work. And her name wasJessica.”
His mouth twitches, making me want to punch him in the face.
“We dated in college until she went crazy and decided she wanted to get married. Who does that?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Nate. Probably a lot of people.”
“No, they don’t. This isn’t the 1950s.”
“Lemme get this straight. You kicked her to the curb because she wanted to marry you?” he attempts to clarify, and I give a sharp nod. “What a monster! Howdareshe wanna spend the rest of her life with you. Good riddance!” The sarcasm is palpable as he pretends to dust his hands clean.
This guy—always busting my balls.
“We were twenty, man. What the fuck did we know at that age? Divorce would’ve been imminent.”
“And, now, with Teddie? Why isn’t it gonna work with her?”
I shake my head, my patience wearing thin with this conversation. “Because mylifeis here. Not in Florida.”
Peter throws his head back in amusement. “What life, man? You don’t see anybody unless I come by. You don’t go anywhere. You don’t do anything. Your life has become so boring you can’t even work.”
Well, that’s harsh.
“You don’t have to be such a dick about it,” I mutter.
He reins in the criticism and softens his expression. “I’m not being a dick. I’m being your big brother. This isn’t the life that our parents wanted for you before they died. This isn’t the lifeIwant for you.” Ninety-eight percent of the time, Peter acts like an over-grown, goofy man-child. So, whenever he takes a serious tone with me, I tend to listen.
“There’s nothing wrong with my life, Peter. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He pushes back, crossing the room to lean on the edge of my desk. “You’ve become some sort of hermit. It’s not good for you.” He goes quiet for a moment and fiddles with a stack of papers. “And it’s not good for me either.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen, Nate. I’m worried about you. You do a shitty job of taking care of yourself, and if I weren’t here, constantly reminding you to eat, hydrate, sleep… you’d probably be dead.” His pointed expression says he knows he’s right.
“I’m neurodivergent. What can I say?” I shrug. The truth is, I’ve been pretty good at masking for thirty years, but sometimes it’s harder to manage. I’m easily overstimulated and cling to my routines—although I’ve gotten better about that over time. But I still become so hyperfocused on tasks that I often forget to eat or drink, or will go days at a time taking two to three-hour naps at night instead of getting real sleep.
Maybe Peter’s right, but I’m not ready to give him that satisfaction.
